Shuffled
by sweetdetection
Summary: iTunes Shuffle challenge...a few short pieces based off of songs that came up while my iPod was on shuffle. Pure Andrew&Margaret fluff. EXCERPT: "She’d destroyed his life, of course. And yet here he was, ignoring his beautiful ex-girlfriend."


**NOTES: **This is just a few short pieces that I wrote while doing an iTunes shuffle challenge. The first two are set after the movie, the second two during, and I'm working on a few more short pieces for another chapter. They're just fluff, but I hope everyone enjoys them, and as always, any feedback is welcomed and encouraged! Thank you!

* * *

**Shuffled**

* * *

**THE FRAY : _You Found Me_**

Margaret Tate had bad days. Days like today, when the rain fell over the city and turned everything gray and black. New York could be beautiful in the rain, but not today. Today none of the lights glittered up into her window, and she took no refuge in the vastness of the life below her. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at her bleak city, and her mind was years in the past. Her office was silent -- most everyone else were still making their way to work. Not that it would have mattered if anyone were there. She was too good at hiding her despair beneath ruthlessness and ice. She imagined that, at this juncture, even if she were to melt down into desperate, helpless tears, everyone else at Colden Books would simply be too terrified to offer any help. So she stood at her window, in her sensible suit, with her sensible ponytail, and she told herself that no one would ever know when she felt this way.

She only felt this way when she remembered her parents. It happened during certain times of year, of course, or when she forgot to keep herself in check. And then the grief would come, held in strict control always, of course, but there. Beneath her black suit which was a sort of armor. She had lost her faith in God then, when she'd woken up the next day and it hadn't been a dream. Her family really had been gone, completely destroyed. And she was, as she would remain, alone.

Exactly like she was now.

_God._ Thinking of the accident always led her to thinking of God. She hoped, for the sake of her family, that God and his paradise existed. But she had felt abandoned by God for just about half her life. He had never shown a particular interest in her after taking her parents. Margaret told everyone she'd pulled herself up by her bootstraps, and she meant it. If God wanted to talk to her now, He was too late.

She turned from the window and sat at her desk. She took the rubber bands off of the manuscript she'd selected to review before dinner. She placed the rubber bands in her little dish and scanned the first page, looking for mistakes in the format. If it had any, she would push it aside and move on. But the front page of the submission was errorless, and she moved on to the next.

_Everyone ends up alone_, she thought, distractedly, as she began to read. _I've just had a little more practice at it, that's all._

A cold, black terror made her fingers tremble as she turned to the third page, and she stopped there, pressing her hands flat to the top of her desk. She breathed. But the trembling persisted. And then the worst possible thing happened: someone knocked on the door to her office. Before she could look up and shake her head, therefore denying them entrance into her inner sanctum, the door opened and the person came in anyway. Her eyes told her the figure was tall, and familiar. Her breath left her body slowly as she met Andrew's gaze. He was striving to look casual, his hands tucked into his pockets, his blazer unbuttoned but his tie impeccable because he knew she hated it when his tie was wrong.

"Margaret," he said, by way of greeting.

"Andrew," she replied, keeping her tone light. Behind him, through the window, she watched early morning break over the city, gray and damp.

He sat on her desk and she forced her focus back to him. His face was almost expressionless, but she could see the worry in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," she told him, lying to them both. He held her gaze for a long moment, then finally he turned from her, nodding absently to himself. He took a breath and pushed himself off of her desk again, moving toward the door. There was nothing he could do when these moods struck her. Except…he stopped at her door.

"Margaret."

She looked up.

"If you need to talk," he said.

"I don't." Her voice was firm. She was grateful for that.

"Yeah." He lingered. "Yeah, I know."

She looked back down at the manuscript. She turned to the fourth page, not sure she'd read any of the third.

"Margaret?"

"_Yes,_ Andrew." It was not a question, and it was not welcoming. She looked up again, her patience threadbare now. He was watching her, that grave concern finding its way into his features.

"You're not…you don't always have to be tough," he said. "And you're not alone. Not anymore."

Margaret stared at him blankly. She stared at him with eyes so dark and so expressionless that he thought maybe he should just leave. And then, suddenly and with a heartbreaking sob that was torn from her without her consent, she burst into tears. Her shoulders heaved as she bent over her desk, and the sounds that came from her broke him as he rushed around her desk. He knelt awkwardly, fumbled as he drew her against his chest. He soothed her with words he didn't remember later, knowing only that it was important to be there while she expelled over a decade of grief.

The storm lasted for a long time. He pulled them both to her carpeted floor and cradled her there, her fingers clutched into his blazer, his shirt soaked from her tears. But finally, finally her sobs slowed. And not long after that, she was simply resting in his arms, exhausted, her breathing still hitched but coming a little easier as the moments passed on and on without any words from either of them.

He brushed his lips over her forehead, her cheeks, any part of her he could reach. His arms were steel bands around her, keeping her pressed to his warmth.

"I always thought…that God was…He was a little too late, the day I needed Him. The day my family needed Him," she said, not sure he would understand. Not sure that, after fifteen years or so of contemplating that very thing, _she _understood. "If I could ask Him one thing…"

Andrew didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say. He could not blame her, not when she already blamed herself. He rocked her slowly, his big body as wrapped around her smaller one as much as he could manage.

"Margaret."

She peeked at him, puffy and broken. He dropped his forehead to hers, and his hold tightened, if possible.

"You never have to deal with that alone. I may not…I may not understand. But I love you. And no matter what, I want to be there for you. Even if…even if being there is all I can do. If…if that's enough."

Margaret's eyes were wide. She had to swallow a couple of times before she could answer, and her voice was raw when she did speak.

She said, carefully, "It's enough. It's more than…I've ever had before."

His lips met hers, just a touch. And then, on the floor of her office, wrapped in each other, they watched the rain wash the city clean.

* * *

**QUEENSRYCHE : **_**Another Rainy Night**_

Andrew couldn't remember what he'd been so mad about now. Just that he was _pissed._ Or had been pissed. But that had been hours ago. And still, his wife was not home.

He'd known when he married her that he had better leave her a back way out when things got tough. Margaret did not appreciate being crowded, particularly when things were getting heated or emotional. And while Andrew had been raised to confront issues until they had been firmly resolved ( he was as tenacious as his father, although he didn't like to admit it ), Margaret's approach was to work it out in her mind, alone. He was still trying to adjust to being shut out of that process until she'd calmed a little. And tonight, apparently, it was taking her a long time to calm down.

But his anger had cooled. And now it was raining. And she hadn't called. And she wasn't answering her phone. And he was sitting alone in the apartment, knowing he should go look and clueless as to where he should start. He ached with the anxiety of not knowing where she was.

Not to mention he'd thought his rainy nights alone were over since they'd actually gotten married. And yet.

He dialed her number again. It went to voicemail, and for what felt like the fifteenth time, said, "Margaret, it's me. Please come home. Or call. Just so I know you're okay."

And then he sat. And waited. And waited for the ring of the phone.

It did not come. The minutes dragged by and he thought of how excruciating loving her was. They had never done the easy way.

He groaned and ran his hands through his hair, then he pushed himself off of the couch. He paced, wondering if he should try and lie down. He had work in the morning. He'd leave the light on for her, but he'd curl up and try to sleep. She'd come home when she wanted to, and there was nothing he could do to expedite that process. Except he couldn't. He just could not fathom trying to sleep when she was out there somewhere.

So he sat again, the phone lying innocently and silently on the couch beside him. And he waited. And the rain kept falling.

* * *

**LINKIN PARK : **_**In Between**_

She noticed that he wasn't speaking. The silence scared her, mostly because he was almost never silent. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for roping him into this whole thing, but she didn't know how to say things like that. She was his mean, scary boss. The one that had strong-armed him into lying to his family about them being engaged. So she sat next to him as he piloted the boat from the town to his parent's home, noticing the way his jaw worked as though he was fighting back words of his own. She was cold, deathly cold, but she didn't mention it. She just dragged the sweater tighter around her body.

"I'm sorry." She startled herself by speaking. Andrew hardly spared her a glance.

"For what, Margaret?" His voice was oddly flat. Uninterested. Margaret swallowed her pride. After all, he'd just saved her life by fishing her out of the ocean. She could afford to show a little weakness.

"All of this."

He shrugged and seemed angry. He'd seemed angry since he'd let her go in order to get them back to the house, where she could change into dry clothes.

How did she tell him that she was afraid of the things she was beginning to feel? The thoughts she was starting to have? How could she explain that what she had wanted when they'd flown to Alaska weren't the same things she wanted now? How could she tell him that everything he knew about her from New York was just a lie? A carefully maintained mask, which kept her isolated, sure, but also kept her safe?

So she left it at sorry. And she didn't tell him that she wasn't sure she could keep pretending to be his loving fiancé, because the truth – that she might really be starting to care for him – kept interfering with her execution of this whole fallacy?

There were no words that seemed right. Whenever she thought of something to say, they deserted her before she could get them to her lips.

Andrew stared out ahead of the boat. His shoulders were tense. She watched him for a while, and then she let her gaze turn to the house sitting majestically on the green at the end of the pier that they would be tied to in a matter of moments. She plucked at her wet pants and wondered if he hated her, and if she could blame him if he did.

Except when the boat was tied up, he gave her his hand to help her onto the pier. And asked her quietly if she was okay. And promised her they'd get her warm in just a few moments. She let him lift her out of the boat and said, simply, "Thank you." And that seemed to be enough. At least for now, that was enough.

* * *

**FALL OUT BOY : **_**7 Minutes In Heaven**_

She'd destroyed his life, of course. It had all come crashing down around him the moment she'd announced their "engagement." And yet here he was, ignoring his beautiful ex-girlfriend and watching Margaret attempt to handle his grandmother. Was he really so desperate to make a point to his father? Was he really so desperate to get a promotion? Did his empty apartment really bother him all that much?

He hadn't thought so in New York.

But this was Sitka.

_Not the desperate type,_ he reminded himself. _And neither is she. Normally. I think._

It was no use. He was not going to forget what she looked like naked, he was not going to forget what she felt like shivering in his arms, he was not going to forget the embarrassed laughter when she'd been caught red-handed, shaking her ass with his Gammy in the middle of Sitka's woods.

He sighed. And got himself some of his dad's good scotch.


End file.
